Speed of Sound
by UnsuaveOffTheMattress
Summary: Dean has a breakdown. Warning: Heavy angst and self harm.
1. Chapter 1

**The beginning of something I threw together amidst a weekend of breakdowns.  
-**

**Speed of Sound**

It's all so fucking loud as he stands there and stares at himself in that dingy streaked glass. His shirt is ripped from the mass amounts of frustration fueled self destruction that's taken place in the past six hours. Voices are yelling and people are screaming and guns are firing, but only in his head. It's silent. The entire room is silent, not even the relentlessly pumping space heater is making a sound. This cannot be said for what's going on behind that mask of tired, red eyes and shaking breaths. It's so loud, it's deafeningly loud, enveloping him in a flurry of concentrated sound. He wants to scream, to beg them to stop, to drown them out, but that isn't really an option because his brother is asleep in the next room, and when Sam is asleep without screaming or thrashing it's close to a miracle-so frustrated and desperate interruptions are out of the question.  
There isn't any way to wait it out anymore. Waiting it out stopped being bearable around 2:30, four hours ago, and now, at 6:24, it's impossible.  
He throws the door open, leaving the light on and the sink bloody as he tears a page from the back of the nightstand bible, one of the blank ones in the back. Sam's pen is beside it, the red one he's been using to make sidenotes on research articles with, and scribbles through the blur of saltwater and the pull of shaking fingers an excessively messy, "I love you, Sammy." He starts hard and abrupt across the room, only to stop, taken back by what he plans on leaving-what's in that bed.  
Through all the yelling, screaming, firing, he can hear those gentle, serene breaths. It would completely blindside him, crush him, horrify him. He'd never cope-never get over it but, strangely, it doesn't matter as much as it should.  
Because it's so loud.  
"I'm so sorry." He adds, taking one of those cold hands and tightening the limp fingers around folded paper. A little twitch, very little, is the response.  
The bed parallel to that sprawled out mess of a brother is still made, and atop the rough sheets he puts his jacket, his gun, and after a long, long second of staring down at them in his hand, the keys to his baby.  
He empties the handgun of bullets as if to hint that he doesn't want to see his brother any time soon, and throws it back onto the bed with his jacket emptied of weapons and crumpled up phone numbers. It smells like him, like vinyl and whiskey, something comforting to the both of them, like home.  
He turns around and pulls the sheets up over Sam's shoulders. He twitches a little more this time. "Shh," Dean whispers, his entire body shaking from a billion different emotions at once. "It's okay."  
Sam turns over onto his chest, sighing gently.  
"It's gonna be okay."


	2. Chapter 2

I love you guys so I try to make you sad.

Enjoy bbz~~~

two.

"I love you, Sammy.  
I'm so sorry."  
The speed at which he throws himself out the door is comparable only to the speed of sound. He stops abruptly, standing chest to chest with this bloody, undead figure. "Oh my god,"  
"Sammy," the sound is slurred, and as it's said, eyes avert down to deeply slit wrists and ramshackle, bruised hands.  
Sam stands there, aghast at what he's seeing, enshroud by horror. What he's looking at is something unimaginable, a deathly pale, half stripped figure with blown pupils and bright red eyelids. It's not a big brother and it's not a source of comfort. It's not warmth and it's not security.  
It's not home.  
It's a zombie, and it is, honestly, more terrifying than anything Sam has ever seen.  
"I'm crazy."  
Sam puts a hand on either of those bloody and freezing arms and starts to lead this zombie back into the room. "No," he tries, his shaking voice not at all convincing. "You're not crazy."  
Dean groans faintly and presses himself back against his brother's chest. "I'm crazy,"  
"You're not-"  
"I'm cold and I'm crazy."  
Sam takes one of the bleached bath towels off the dingy bedspread and ties it tight around Dean's wrists. "C'mere,"  
He presses harder as Sam tries to push him to sit down. "You're so warm."  
"I know," Sam pushes Dean back. "But you need to sit down."  
"Sammy," urgency lines his voice, and his gaze casts towards the washroom. "Sammy, I need-" he coughs hard, and blood pours down onto Sam's shirt. It's thick, and it abruptly soaks through the thin fabric.  
"Oh god," he looks down, seeing how it drips all the way down onto the floor. "Oh god," a mass of dead weight collapses into his arms. "Oh god," he takes the lower half of this body up into his arms and turns for the door, only to remember the car keys on the bed. Sam briefly notes how gently they had to have been placed down as he picks them up. Come to think of it, nothing was thrown down. It was all put down gingerly. It was all staged, thought through, like he'd been planning it. It's a terrifying thought—he planned all of this. He knew what he'd leave and where he'd leave it and he knew where he would go, what he would use, and exactly how long it would take. He did everything according to that plan...except go through with it. It was perfected, tweaked again and again, leave the jacket, the empty gun, and the keys on the bed respectively. Take the razor blade, take the bleach, and go five hundred feet into the woods before doing anything. First the bleach, then the cuts to balance out the pain, and stand there. Stand there until it works, until your legs fall out from under you and the clocks stop. It was intricate, well put together, but nowhere in the steps was there throwing the blade and the bottle down and wasting the last coherent sound on, "Sammy!"


	3. Chapter 3

so this is what I did in class yesterday because I am legit terrified of getting mental help for some reason. Anyway, enough about me, back to sexy and disturbed demon hunters.

three

A bright white room, sickly sanitized and closed in by concrete walls and a wall of windows adjacent to the bed. He sits up in the corner between the headboard and the cold concrete bricks, his legs sprawled atop the covers and one of the thin pillows held tight against his chest. He squeezes it like it's a baby, something he has to protect with his life, but fails to show any emotion otherwise, too drugged to think, too drugged to speak, and too drugged to know where he is or what's going on. He's numb to everything, and glances down at his gauze covered arms blankly from time to time, forgetting about the slits, the stitches, and the way he ran screaming for his brother until losing a great amount of blood from his mouth onto the concrete. That's when he dropped to his knees down on all fours and losing mass amounts of necessities. It took a while, but after he got up, he dragged himself to the door, saw the terror on Sam's face, and then completely blacked out, having no memory after that—before waking up against this wall of course.  
The heavy wooden door creaks open, but he fails to look over, his gaze dead set on the closed blinds over the windows. It's dark with them closed, and though he wants to look outside, he can't bring himself to get up. It hurts. It's numb, but at the same time it hurts.  
"Hey," the door closes cautiously, just as the voice starts cautiously. "Wanna talk?"  
Dean glances over and finds Sam scared half to death in front of the door, his hands shaking from a hybrid of nerves and terror. He nods, even though he has no desire to do anything at all, let alone have a heart to heart with baby brother.  
"Awesome," Sam sits down on the bed slowly, and then inches away as bright red and dilated eyes glance over at him. "So," he states simply.  
Dean nods, and then repeats him in a faded and slurred voice. "So,"  
It's an awkward thirty seconds before either of them says anything. "Why are you hugging your pillow?" Sam asks as he gestures over towards his brother.  
He shrugs slightly.  
"It's hurting your arms, isn't it?"  
"No," his enthusiasm is nowhere to be found, much like his sharp attitude, his other emotions, and that cocky half smile he gets when he talks down to his brother. "I can't feel it."  
Sam nods and studies this foreign figure. "C'mere," there's some blood on his face still from the way he kicked and screamed and thrashed as they brought him up here.

They held him tight around the waist, his arms bound to his chest and his mouth covered by a hand almost comically huge. He wiggled and kicked and tried as hard as he could to scream as his brother watched in horror. It was literally scarring to see him that way, kicking and thrashing and wrapped tight in what's commonly known as a straight jacket, thick and white and more than likely cutting off circulation. They screamed to each other a jumbled up mess of , "hold him down!" And, "sedate him!"  
They dropped him to the floor and six hands held him down.  
"Sam!" He shrieked. "Sam, help me!"  
A seventh hand covered his mouth, and an eighth pushed an unreasonably sharp needle into his arm. He fell silent. His eyes rolled back, and thought and movement processes shut completely down. Breathing deep, they released their tight grasps and huge arms, abnormally huge arms, pulled him off the floor. "Where's he going?"  
Sam wonders the same thing, and as he watches that restrained, lifeless body in the arms of some huge guard while wrapped in a straight jacket and sedated half to death, he can't imagine how it got this bad.  
"Alone," a voice says simply. "Just get him alone."  
"Wait," Sam awkwardly cuts in. "Will he-"  
"He'll be fine," they start down the hall, and another voice reassures the same statement.  
"He'll be fine."

"C'mere," holding Dean's chin, he runs the terricloth hard against thickening stubble tinged with red. Dean puts an unenthusiastic hand in attempt to push Sam away, but with the lack of enthusiasm comes a bout of apathy. So his hand falls, and he puts up with what ever Sam chooses to do with him. "There," Sam puts the now sticky and stained towel back where he found it and turns to his brother with a faint smile. "That's better, right?"  
"Sure," Dean replies, his tone remaining sleepy and slurred. "If that makes you happy."  
That disingenuous smile fades. "So you're not feeling better?"  
He exhales hard. "I'm not feeling anything." Dean squeezes his pillow tighter. "As cliche as that sounds."  
Sam glances down at how tight his brother keeps the pillow. "Why are you holding your pillow?"  
He shrugs.  
"You need to-"  
"I don't need to tell you anything, Sam." He raises his voice, but only to a certain extent for he can't let anyone else hear. "I don't need to do anything for you right now. I don't need to do anything for anyone right now."  
"Except yourself."  
Dean pauses. "What?"  
"You need to do something for yourself."  
He pauses again.  
"You need to get better."  
"Get out." He defiantly says.  
"Not until you-"  
"Sam!" Dean shrieks, throwing a hand against the side of his brother's face. "Get the fuck out!"  
The door slams open, and a look of sheer terror comes about Dean as he realizes what he just did. The big figure from before guides Sam out the door, tells him to go out to the waiting room, and another of the same size takes Dean as quickly as possible and binds his arms tight as he screams and begs for mercy. "No!" He pleads. "Please!"  
They pull him from the bed and the other takes a tight hold of his legs as he starts again to kick and squirm. "You need to calm down."  
"Sammy!" He shrieks as he finds his brother there in the hallway, his hands over his face. "Sam-" they cover his mouth, and though he tries as hard as he can to shake them off, he can't do anything. He's completely helpless.  
Sam watches as they take him away, and then as he looks back into the room, all he finds outside the furniture is the pillow there on the floor.


	4. Chapter 4

Horray! You guys are so amazing and supportive I love you! Enjoy this hot mess, all.

Xxx

Four.

"Hey,"

The door opens, and he looks over to find a blurry figure with a foreign voice coming towards him. His eyes are heavy and his mind is half awake, thoughts lagging and vision fuzzy.

"Are you calmed down?" He doesn't recognize the voice, but bods towards it anyway. "I'm sorry?"  
Dean swallows hard against a scratchy throat and breathes in shakily. "Yeah,"  
"Ready to go back?"  
"Mm-hmm,"  
"C'mon," he feels himself get pulled up off the floor and closes his eyes to keep back further vertigo. "Gonna let you get some sleep, okay?" Whoever this is, Dean decides, sounds exactly like Sam. They aren't as far as he can tell, too small to be Sam, but the pitch is astounding, and he absolutely adores it. It's warm as they place him back on the bed, and as the restraint leaves his middle, his arms collapse down to his sides. "Oh god," he sighs, his ribs sore to a fault. "Thank you."  
Another door closes after a few seconds, and he looks around at the near pitch dark room. A few shards of light pour in through the windows, illuminating the pale walls and blank concrete floor. It's the same, the same as before. It's the same bed as before, the same corner as before and, comfortingly, the same pillow as before.  
He turns over cautiously and takes hold of it, the thick gauze over his stitches tugging slightly. The feeling is coming back, and though the stitches don't hurt that bad, and the chemical burns aren't anything beyond his threshold, he feels sicker than he ever could have imagined. The energy he's had bottled up is gone. The drive and quirk he always seems to have is gone. The color in his skin is gone. Everything is gone.  
Everything except the noise, the sound, the screaming and shooting and all those relentless voices. Everything is gone, but it's still so loud.

His eyes resemble those of a china doll—dull, blank, almost dead. They're glassy, emotionless, and physically blown, all pupil with the exception of a thin ring of faded green. They glance about the floor slowly, lazily, unenthusiastically, and as they do they find light pouring in from the door. It's not pitch dark, but it's close to it.  
"Dean?" A scared, shrunken voice starts.  
It's not the same voice as earlier, which he now defines as a watered down version of this, a cheap copy with a lower octave and the same inflection.  
"Wanna talk?"  
He lazily pushes himself up, only to drop back down to the mattress after briefly looking over. "No,"  
There's a pause, a decent one.  
"Get out."  
"We really need to talk."  
He turns towards the wall. "No we don't."  
A hand hesitantly places itself on his arm and pulls at him. "Talk to me."  
"Don't touch me."  
They gently push him into the corner to keep him sitting upright. "Please," they sit down beside him. "You don't even have to say much, just-"  
"Sam," he interrupts. "Get out."  
"Not until you talk to me."  
Dean rolls his eyes. "About what?"  
Another awkward pause falls about, and as it does, Dean takes the pillow from the bed and holds it close. "Why don't you tell me why you've been so obsessed with your pillow."  
"No," he looks down at it. "No, you'll think I'm crazy."  
"I won't-"  
"More crazy, I mean."  
"I won't think you're crazy at all, just tell me."  
His eyes slowly avert up to his brother's, and the mutual desperation is close to sickening. "It smells like your jacket," he says finally. "And I kinda feel like you're here."  
Sam hesitates. "What?"  
"Nothing, just-"  
"Lemme see,"  
Dean studies him, and then gently hands it over. "I think it's the same soap."  
Sam nods, and then hands it back. "It is the same soap."  
Dean puts his head down, facing the windows.  
"But why does that make you feel better?"  
"Because you're like home." He returns. "And everyone here wants to go home."


	5. Chapter 5

So, this chapter has been close to impossible, hence the reason I took on a different direction and point of view with it. I'll more than likely go back to third person after this as much as I love being in Sammy's head but that all depends on the response this gets.

Anyway, I love all of you and your faces and your feedback so keep being beautiful.

Xx

Five

I'm thinking about how you turn over at night, how you shift and moan and sigh breezily. I'm thinking of the way you sleepily rub your eyes when I wake you up in the morning and the way your voice sounds in that first fragment. I'm thinking of you, and the way you stumble out of bed and bitterly push me aside.

I'm thinking about you.

I'm thinking about you because I miss you.

I miss the covers shifting and the little sounds beside me at night. I miss the foggy eyes and the sound of bare feet on cheap tile.

I miss you, and it's killing me.

I miss you, and it's only been five days.

I miss you, and it feels like a lifetime.

You somehow got hold of a phone, somehow dialed my number, and somehow managed to completely break down without getting caught. "Come get me." You begged, your thoughts scrambled and your marbles lost completely. "I don't care what it takes, just come get me."

I thought I was dreaming, trying to convince myself that you could never in a million years sound like that. I thought I was dreaming. I hoped I was dreaming. "Dean-" I tried.

"Sam," you sobbed, cutting me off. "I can't do this. Come get me."

My chest felt heavy and my mind lagged slightly, your call coming through hours after I'd been asleep. "What happened?" I asked.

You fell dead silent for a long second as if the line had been cut, and then I turned on the light. Your jacket was still on the bed.

"Hello?"

Breathing heavy, you came back. "I need you to come and get me, Sam, please."

"Why?"

You breathed in shakily, slowly. "I'm going crazy."

I paused. "Well-"

"Don't say anything just get over here." You tried your best, but you didn't sound demanding at all. "I need you."

"You need me?" I asked.

"Yeah,"

"After telling me over and over to get out, leave you alone?"

You didn't answer.

"After you screamed at me and told me not to touch you because all of this is my fault?"

You coughed slightly, and those chemical burns in your mouth came back into mind. I tried to imagine how heavy all of this had to be on you, how much worse you felt than me— I couldn't. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

"It's not okay."

"Dean-"

"Just get me out of here, Sam."

I glanced over at the clock and wondered how I'd pull this off at 3:36 AM.

"Sammy," your voice fell to a whisper, a rushed one. "I need to go before-"

The receiver hit the floor, and faintly I heard voices, close ones. I pieced together by your one sided answers of, "no one", "nothing", and "really, no one. Really nothing." That you were pulling the oblivious card. I quickly hung up, assuming that your lose the phone, and started to think about what exactly I'd plan to do. I didn't get far before I got sidetracked by how much I miss you.

I miss you.

I miss you, but I'll see you soon.

Xx


	6. Chapter 6

Another new approach in regards to point of view because I'm horrible at doing continuous fics. I know, I'm a bad person for this, almost as bad a person as I am for the autocorrect errors I've been making. No but seriously I was reading back over the past chapters and literally screaming and crying. It wasn't pretty, so I've stopped writing on my phone and started writing on a screen that I can actually see. Anyways, enjoy, bbz!  
Xx

Six

Your brother sits beside you in a straight jacket, arms bound tight to his chest and cheeks bright red from all the fights he's relentlessly put up in the past few hours after talking to you.  
You ask him if he's okay.  
He doesn't answer.  
Your brother sits beside you in a straight jacket, and you awkwardly fidget, pulling your legs up onto his bed. It creaks loud, and you wonder how it must be horrible to sleep on knowing that so many sick people have before you.  
You ask him again if he's okay.  
He gives you a look as if you're oblivious, his blown pupils surrounded by a thin and dull ring of faded jade green. He asks you if you really need him to answer that.  
You awkwardly look at the wall before you.  
He doesn't. "Sam," he starts, to which you glance back over at him. "Did I call you last night?"  
You stare at him for a long and dead silent second.  
"'Cause they told me that I did."  
"Yeah," you uncomfortably return. "You did."  
Your brother leans back against the wall and let's out a long and heavy breath.  
"You don't remember?"  
"Nope."  
Again, you pause, and in that pause you study him. He's messy, out of sorts, out of his mind. You decide that were sickness personified, it would more than likely be your brother, and how he looks right now. "What do you think it was?"  
He looks back over at you with that same expression. "How am I supposed to know?" He asks. "I have no idea what happened."  
"Well what do they think it was?"  
"They think I'm crazy." He's gone from harsh to borderline helpless in half a second. "That's their excuse for everything I do."  
"That you're crazy?"  
He nods, starting to get choked up. "That I'm crazy."  
All you do is stare at him in return, astounded at this person he's become. You can't describe it or make out who it's supposed to be. You don't know what or who it is, but it's not him. You know that much.  
"Am I crazy?"  
"What?"  
"Am I crazy, Sam?"  
You think hard about your respond, unsure whether or not he actually wants you to answer. "Dean-"  
"Please," he chokes. "Be honest with me."

Xx

aaaw, what a lame ending. So yeah more coming real soon cause I'm on break and have nothing to do for the next week. Thanks for reading and reviewing if you do and I love you. Seriously, I love you.


	7. Chapter 7

Thank you so much for putting up with this fic.

Seven

He says yes, and awkwardly so, too cautious as to your tears and clearly askew mental state to be sure of himself.  
You pull your knees close and avert your gaze from him. It's near insane how badly you want to kick him out, scream at him and tell him not to come back. But you don't say anything. You don't make any eye contact. You don't do anything. You just sit there, looking down at the creaky mattress, the one whose intoxicatingly sweet scent you've been breathing in for the past ten days—these ten days that feel like ten years.  
He takes hold of your chin and turns you towards him, his fingers tickling the ever thickening stubble. His expression is a mix of certainty and uncertainty, an unhealthy balance more identifiable as completely doubtful and completely terrified with genuine, self assured undertones. "Please, Dean." He says.  
"Please what?" You ask.  
"Please don't take this personally."  
You want to tell him it's too late for that, but you can't bring yourself to.  
"Because you're crazy," he moves his hand to your jawline and continues to keep your attention. "But you always have been, and I couldn't imagine you any other way."  
You pause. "I've always been like this, and it's now that you choose to get me help?"  
Sam shakes his head. "I never chose this for you."  
"Doesn't matter." You quickly return. "You let it happen, and you let it happen without protest."  
"You don't know that."  
"I think I do."  
His hand slides down your arm, and he looks down at you, at your sheltered and bound self. "I don't want this for you." He attests. "Really."  
"I don't want this for me either." You nudge him back. "Now please,"  
He back away slightly.  
"Please leave."

You fake your way to unbundling, fully manipulating it by throwing yourself into a washroom and leaning over the moldy sink. The paint peels around you, and your fingers grip the porcelain tight, bruised and swollen. A physically sick feeling washes over you as you look up into the mirror. What you see is bad enough, red, puffy eyes, lifelessly pale skin, and a generally unkept physical appearance, but what you see isn't as bad as what you hear.  
Noise. Sound. Screaming. Gunshots.  
It's screaming, and it's static. It's gore, and it's gunfire.  
"Do something!" A million voices shriek desperately, all a fraction of a second apart, layered chaotically atop each other. "Please, do something!"  
Your breaths grow heavy, shallow, labored. It hurts. Everything hurts. You can't handle it, it hurts so bad.  
"Do anything! Just do something!"  
With a choked and desperate, "oh my god," you grip your hair tight, hands managing to cover your face as you do.  
"Do something!"  
You shake your head. "No,"  
"Yes!"  
"No,"  
"Do something!"  
"No,"  
"Please!"  
You put your hands down and look at yourself, deciding that your brother was right. You're crazy. You're crazy, and you're not going to get better. You're crazy, and as much as you want to say no and mean it, you can't.  
So as they again shriek at you to do something you cave—you say yes. You say yes because they're all so loud. The voices, the gunshots, it's all so fucking loud. And that's why you say yes.  
Because it's all so fucking loud.

Xx

And that's it.  
It's done.  
Thank you.


	8. Chapter 8

So I kinda lied and it's back, but only to clear things up. Then it's done.

Eight

It's all so fucking loud as he stands there and stares at himself in that dingy streaked glass. His shirt is ripped from the mass amounts of frustration fueled self destruction that's taken place in the past six hours. Voices are yelling and people are screaming and guns are firing, but only in his head. It's silent. The entire room is silent, not even the relentlessly pumping space heater is making a sound. This cannot be said for what's going on behind that mask of tired, red eyes and shaking breaths. It's so loud, it's deafeningly loud, enveloping him in a flurry of concentrated sound. He wants to scream, to beg them to stop, to drown them out, but that isn't really an option because his brother is asleep in the next room, and when Sam is asleep without screaming or thrashing it's close to a miracle—so frustrated and desperate interruptions are out of the question.  
There isn't any way to wait it out anymore. Waiting it out stopped being bearable around 2:30, four hours ago, and now, at 6:24, it's impossible.  
He throws the door open, leaving the light on and the sink bloody as he tears a page from the back of the nightstand bible, one of the blank ones in the back. Sam's pen is beside it, the red one he's been using to make sidenotes on research articles with, and scribbles through the blur of saltwater and the pull of shaking fingers an excessively messy, "I love you, Sammy." He starts hard and abrupt across the room, only to stop, taken back by what he plans on leaving-what's in that bed.  
Through all the yelling, screaming, firing, he can hear those gentle, serene breaths. It would completely blindside him, crush him, horrify him. He'd never cope-never get over it but, strangely, it doesn't matter as much as it should.  
Because it's so loud.  
"I'm so sorry." He adds, taking one of those cold hands and tightening the limp fingers around folded paper. A little twitch, very little, is the response.  
The bed parallel to that sprawled out mess of a brother is still made, and atop the rough sheets he puts his jacket, his gun, and after a long, long second of staring down at them in his hand, the keys to his baby.  
He empties the handgun of bullets as if to hint that he doesn't want to see his brother any time soon, and throws it back onto the bed with his jacket emptied of weapons and crumpled up phone numbers. It smells like him, like vinyl and whiskey, something comforting to the both of them, like home.  
He turns around and pulls the sheets up over Sam's shoulders. He twitches a little more this time. "Shh," Dean whispers, his entire body shaking from a billion different emotions at once. "It's okay."  
Sam turns over onto his chest, sighing gently.  
"It's gonna be okay."  
He looks at the bed, looks at the note, and his jacket, and his keys, and then he stops. He exhales deep, then places that empty gun on the bedside table. He doesn't need it, neither of them need it right now. The razor blades in his pockets go next to it, and in their place goes the note, slipped into the pocket of his sweatpants just as so many have been recently. Rubbing his eyes, he takes the keys, throws them with the rest on the table, and pulls back the sheets. With a deep breath he slides under them, and though it's all so loud and so crazy, he can look over to the right and visualize what he needs. His brother, his anchor, his silence.  
And after a while, after a long while if staring over and giving his undivided attention to his silence, everything goes quiet, and his mind finally shuts down, but not until he hears that bittersweet silence ask, "why are you still up?"  
Hearing his voice is like hearing nothing. His voice, his breaths, even the way his fingers tap on the keys of his laptop when he can't sleep is like silence, and while that sound plays out some horrific and realistic scenes in his head, Dean knows they're nothing more than scenes, thoughts, tricks his mind pulls on him because no matter how loud it gets, he's really learned how to focus and enjoy the silence.  
Xx

And that's about


End file.
